Aren't You Glad
by Rednih
Summary: The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. One day, they will see this. Starring a female Batman and including Graphic Depictions of Violence and Implied or Off-Stage Rape/Non-Con. Only Pre-Pairings for this installment.
1. One

'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.

Title taken from Spirit's song of the same name.

There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included this warning just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger someone.

* * *

Life is not complicated. It's birth and death, and in between there is growth and decay. It's simple, intricate maybe, but not complicated, not incomprehensible. A person is not complicated, either. There are needs and desires, weaknesses, strengths, but nothing world-shattering.

People, though, are complicated. Societies are ofttimes baffling. With people, there are interactions, and from those come secrets, lies, betrayals. Life isn't a puzzle; people make it one. Usually, it's not even intentional. They are who they are, and generally people are just trying to find and hold on to whatever happiness and peace they can.

There are always outliers, however, and that's where the trouble starts—but it's not where it ends. The truth is, and it's taken her a long time to realize this, what's set in motion by human will never truly stops. People's minds, their actions and reasoning, are not subject to the laws of physics.

Of course, neither are their hearts.

* * *

Things could have turned out so differently. There are numerous points in her personal history, where, just by making another decision, her life would now be drastically altered from its present state. Simply through choice, she has had the opportunity to turn back or turn around many times already. Outside factors aside, she is who she is because of who she was at any given moment in time.

Maybe she should have studied philosophy.

Business is still booming. Technology is much improved, the cell phones tinier and faster than ever. The jet is a newer model; the car is not. The people too are still the same. They dress in new styles of clothing, and the hair is perhaps cut and pulled back differently, but underneath the finery and underneath the filth, Gothamites are Gothamites, and nothing here has really changed while she was—away.

The media is persistent, it seems. There was a break-in at the main offices the day news of her return first hit the waves. Some unlucky reporter was charged, and she smiled when Alfred told her over breakfast the next morning. It was in the Gotham Globe too, though thankfully pushed back a few pages in favor of actual news—but should have been, if anything, a tiny mention in the society pages and nothing more. All of this noise is ridiculous, and this she definitely did not miss. They want interviews that first week or so. She can't go anywhere without causing a scene, so instead Alfred calls people in. New clothes, a stylist for her hair, someone who shows her the best way to use the best makeup, and all of it's free of charge for this initial consultation, of course. She has a disgusting amount of money at her disposal now, or will soon when she's no longer legally dead, and she's the one who doesn't really have to pay for anything. It's nauseating.

The wheels have run relatively smoothly in her absence. The Foundation still gives but, when she requests and is given the paperwork for the last several years and has thoroughly reviewed it—not enough, not nearly enough. What isn't spent on kitting her out afresh instead goes directly to the Foundation's priority organizations. She herself signs off on it in her new office, formerly her father's, trying in vain to make her signature large and whimsical, but it's stuck on tight and jagged, and by the 'e' in 'Wayne,' she's given up. Her rationalization is that no one will care about the damned signature anyway. They won't be that methodical. It's the surface appearance she has to worry about, not the details.

People don't look too closely at the small things, and that's why they make mistakes and are taken by surprise. It's easy enough work fooling those desperate to be fooled. She is now in the process of becoming an external symbol, and it's not as painful as she'd anticipated, but it's a good deal more difficult nonetheless. It's time to think big.

Batman is already here, and this is merely the dress rehearsal. She's been ready for this—for a long time.

Brooke Wayne is another matter altogether. That's where she falters and draws a blank. Oh, she's familiar with the motions, but it's not a dance she ever had to really take part in, not long term like now. The costuming is a bitch, too. She's not the standard, and so certain measures have to be taken in order to conceal that fact. Dresses, heels, long hair, makeup, all of this she is expected to have perfected by now. The hair would be the easiest, as she used to wear it well past her shoulders and isn't wholly against letting it grow out once more, but even then it can't be worn just plain down or efficiently tied back. No, it must be conditioned and primed and styled and pulled up and then mussed and then scraped down again and then finally artfully sculpted into a truly defining piece of—hair. It's just hair! And the shoes are ridiculous, ridiculously uncomfortable and ridiculously impractical, and she looks ridiculous in them. Except, judging by people's reactions in the main office, she actually manages to pull heels off. Or, more likely, she's just returned from the dead, and the stilettos are still relatively low in terms of noteworthiness.

There are dresses, dozens of them, all offered up to her, all custom made, and never mind how the measurements were taken when she's been gone for seven years and back for barely two weeks. But, dresses are even sillier than heels—not to mention capable of hiding and disguising fewer suspicious markings, such as scars, wounds, and bruises. Few dresses make the cut, the lucky winners being something like a baggy white shroud, a purple wrap, some skin-tight metallic thing with a high collar and long sleeves, and the ubiquitous black dress. There's a bright print that she catches Alfred smiling at, so at the last second she grabs that one too, but all the other flimsy things are bundled off and carried away. No more dresses. It's one of the perks of being filthy rich and incredibly eccentric.

In the meantime, her real outfit is slowly being pieced together in fits and starts.

It comes to her one night in the manor, a bat chirping away in the hall as it desperately tries to find its way back outside. Alfred comes around the corner, tray in hand, and she has a brief flashback to when she fell down–

" . . . nest somewhere in the grounds," he's saying, walking close and assessing her in that way of his, taking notice of every minute detail without passing judgment.

. . . bats. Bats.

"I daresay," she quips, shooting him a quick smile when his eyebrows draw together. She then pats him on the shoulder and turns to go back into what was formerly her parents' bedroom and is now undergoing the lengthy process of becoming her own. Alfred trails behind, and it's a meal on that tray that he carefully, and very pointedly, sets down on a table near her spread out research. In response, she lifts the glass of orange juice she'd gotten from the kitchen hours ago and takes a long drawn out drink. Alfred shakes his head.

"Several new invitations today," he offers, still going for neutral, but she can easily detect the note of hopefulness in the elevated pitch of his voice.

"Any from someone I actually knew before?" she returns, turning away and dropping back down to the floor. She sets the orange juice to the side and once more drags Falcone's old case file into her lap. There's something about the photos that keeps needling her. They're the standard fare from half-assed GCPD stakeouts, but it's the angle of the second shot taken out at the docks that is bugging her. Too close, maybe, or too low, not shaky enough, something is just—off about it.

"No, Madame," Alfred answers quietly, and she looks up at him, something about his voice unpleasantly hitting a nerve.

"What?" she asks bluntly, and there's no need for any forced emphasis or pretending on her part—or his.

Alfred sighs, and she's sure that another disappointed lecture is on its way, but then he just shakes his head again, turns his back to her, and abruptly leaves the room. She can hear his steps receding, the soft clicking of his shoes on the marble hallway and then down each of the steps until he's gone.

Well, okay, and she picks up the photograph again, and disappointment is still on her mind, and that's when she remembers something else about That Night, someone else—disappointment, outside the norm, perseverance, the coat and its bloodstains. "It's all right," he'd said, or, "It's okay. It will be okay."

And now she's curious. This photo was taken by someone on the scene, but it's unique. There and yet not, alone, hurried but perfectly composed and utterly incriminating. It's a very small piece, but everything in it is clear. The backs of the trucks are open, and the scant lighting available showcases the illicit material inside, and the goons doing the transporting are indistinct, but the man leaning against the side of the limo is not. His profile is etched, carved, head held high and secure in his power and perceived invincibility, and, yes, this is personal to her—but it's personal to whoever took this photo too.

Gordon. She's sure of it without even checking. He was right there, has been there, maybe many times, but never with anyone behind him to back him up. There are risks he wouldn't be able to take. A man like that, he'll have family, perhaps a few friends, but maybe he would be amenable to having one more. Maybe they can use each other as backup.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Suddenly, she feels the need for a work out.

* * *

The headpiece that will double as a helmet comes in, all several thousand copies of it, with a flawed chemical composition which renders it practically useless. The rest she precisely custom makes herself—well, and borrows from R&D where no one will ever miss it. The suit isn't a perfect fit, designed and molded as it was with a man's frame as reference, but it's not too much of a stretch. She's proud to see her arms fill out the armor nicely, and the chest is, perhaps sadly, not that tight, and really it's the waist and hips that present the biggest challenge. The buckles only constrict or expand so far, and it will just take some getting used to until she can subtly get some improvements made. Running will be interesting for awhile. The good news is it's more of a success at hiding her sex than she'd dared to hope. The weakest parts are her chin, which still reads as too feminine, and her stance, which she's consciously working on but will likely prove tricky further down the line when she needs to be Brooke and not the Bat.

She's a big girl, all right, but she's also brave enough to admit she's a damn fine actor too, and the latter will cover up for the former when people attempt to put and two together with regard to the identity of the Bat and the coincidental timing of "him" appearing on the scene just as Brooke Wayne returns from the dead. There's also the fact that people are largely sexist, and influential, powerful men in Gotham have the dubious honor of being in her experience, almost to a one, incredibly misogynistic. They will never believe it could be a woman. It won't even enter into their minds as a possibility, and that more than anything is what will keep her safe. It's depressing that she's relying on the worst parts of men's arrogance and collective feelings of superiority in order to bring justice and integrity back to this city, and it seems more than a little hypocritical or at least self-defeating, but these too are the tools of her trade. It's why as Brooke Wayne she'll wear the goddamned high heels and tight clothing with low necklines and act the part of flighty billionaire socialite. It's degrading, and it will likely set women in this city back several years, but it's for the greater good. At least this way, there will be a long run, an in the end, an after the fact, a further down the line, and she can live with having her name used as a punch line because it won't be her, not really. She is something more, and her methods are therefore just as advanced.

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. One day, they will see this.

* * *

The third weekend back, she quite literally bumps into Rachel as she's leaving her newly acquired hotel. Her clothes are soaking wet, and the two models have already resumed their combined seat in the passenger side of the car, and Rachel looks at her—and it's surprise and disappointment and vague disgust, and Brooke takes a deep breath and doesn't allow herself to look away.

"You look beautiful," she offers, but it's not lighthearted or quirkily, girlishly flirty. She means it, pushes it out through slowly constricting vocal cords, and she can see it on Rachel's face that she still doesn't truly get it. She doesn't believe it, and why would she? When has Brooke Wayne, this Brooke Wayne, ever said something serious? They don't even know each other anymore. She doesn't know what Rachel's favorite restaurant is or her taste in music. She knows her daily schedule, what route she most often takes back to her apartment, how often she visits her mother, whom in the past she's dated and the lawyer in IA she's been spending more and more time with and is likely meeting here tonight, but she doesn't know Rachel, not really, and it makes it hard to breathe. It's painful.

Rachel's eyebrows lift up, and her mouth compresses into a smirk, but it's like she's gone, floated out of reach—if she were ever truly there to begin with, which she never was, honestly. If Brooke could love anyone closer than from afar, it would be, or would have been, Rachel Dawes.

But, that ship seems to have set sail seven years ago.

"Did you get caught in a freak rainstorm inside?" Rachel jokes, and it's so bland and impersonal and awkward that it makes Brooke grimace.

She pulls at her top in apparent distaste, playing it up so the people watching will have something to tell later. "Went for a swim!" she explains, forcing a grin onto her face and a cheerful note into her voice. "Water was a bit cold, though."

Those eyebrows flick up in dismissive acknowledgment, and she's already checked out of this conversation. Still, for formality's sake. . . .

"You still trying to save the world?"

And she gets a closer, more examining look at that one, but it doesn't last. She's just too good an actor.

"'Trying' being the operative word there," Rachel retorts with a self-deprecating smile.

"Big job for one person," Brooke answers, but it's the wrong thing to say, coming from the wrong person at the wrong time, and instantly Rachel's tolerance and good humor vanish. Her face just closes down like a book snapping shut.

"Well, what else can I do, when others are too busy—swimming?" She flicks another polite smile at her and starts turning away.

And that's the end, the last word, the nail in the coffin of their friendship. It's better this way. Now, it's just Alfred she has to protect. And, really, what did they have in common–

"Rachel," Brooke says, taking a step closer and almost daring to set a hand on her arm but at the last second just leaving it hovering there in midair, "all of this," and here she gestures behind herself at the car and the models and the hotel and the entire façade of Brooke fucking Wayne, "it's not real. I am, underneath– I am more."

But, she still doesn't get it because she can't, because it's not enough, but it's all Brooke can give her.

Rachel looks and looks, and she's probably really trying, but in the end she shakes her head and steps back again.

"It's not who you are, Brooke," she says, and it rings as an apology and a rejection and stings like nothing else. "It's what you do that defines you."

Then she's gone, walking away, and Brooke stands there too long, swallowing back an endless slew of words and feelings that will never do anybody any damn good. And then she turns and struts out of the hotel, out to the car with Kevin and Bianca riding shotgun together and Brooke Wayne driving, and she has a hell of a time—one hell of a good goddamn time.

And later she takes off the mask. It's just a mask, after all.


	2. Two

'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.

There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included this warning just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger someone.

* * *

One day after one night filled with thwarted muggings, three attempted rapes, and one foiled heist, she goes into the tower and Fox leads her to a new compartment, one that, when its top drawer is pulled out, displays a new armored suit with all the trappings. She hadn't asked, hadn't ever mentioned it to him outright, but he knows. In the drawers below that, there are newer tools and flashier toys, things like retractable night vision lenses that, even at just a glance, will fit perfectly inside the cowl—and he did all this without reference, without proper measurements. And it's not that she underestimates Fox. . .

She's just not quite sure of his motivation in doing all this—for her, for no other reason than to help her. He doesn't get anything out of it, in fact loses stuff.

"Thank you," she says eventually, and he responds with that Mona Lisa smile of his and then leaves her alone to familiarize herself with the new gear.

Unbuttoning her jacket and then her shirt, she slides them off and puts them on top of the metal cabinet nearby. And, as she pulls out the new armor and goes about strapping it into place, fumbling a little with the different design on the latches, it occurs to her that all the important people in her life, save one, are men, older men, wholly paternal in their regard. What this says about her, she doesn't examine too closely, but perhaps more telling is the exception to the trend and the fact that, while Rachel is most definitely not an older man who looks at Brooke and sees a troubled and needy daughter, their relationship is just as nonphysical as the others.

Even Henri, Ducard, Ra's—even he, despite the others' insinuations and taunts, had never touched her in any way that wasn't professional and utterly distant. Sometimes he had seemed reluctant to touch her at all, and perhaps it was memories of his wife or a complete lack of desire or a vow of celibacy or _pity_, but it's standing here in the company in the building in the city her father and grandfather and great-grandfather and all the male Waynes for generations helped build and realizing it's been years since someone touched her with love, since she touched someone else for some other reason than to harm.

And she's never known how to reach out, and there's never been anyone to reach out to like that, anyway. Maybe there never will be.

She knows it then. The buck stops here. The last.

But, there are worse fates.

She finishes doing up the torso portion of the suit, and already the fit is a vast improvement over the initial prototype, the casing around her chest and ribs conforming perfectly and the waist brought in tighter. The plating for her arms is separate, just as that for her legs isn't connected to the hips and crotch section, and she understands suddenly that the torso portion can also double as a protective vest, that the other parts will be just as good a fit and possibly even able to pass under clothing, should the need arise. She is now armored for nearly every occasion, and she put herself in this position for a reason. It's only logical certain sacrifices must be made to hold it.

* * *

In practice it is more like a recipe than strategy. She constantly varies the approach, shifts the combination of moves in the takedown, and modifies the degree to which the criminal in charge and his underlings are punished, and sometimes the results are successful—and sometimes they are most definitely not.

How much is too much? The problem isn't the reverse and likely never will be. Alfred says she is angry and has credited the time spent away as the cause, but he's mistaken. Whatever rage she feels is older than that and was in truth tempered and refined during those seven years. She knows how to smile now and laugh and appreciate the tiny moments of joy her life does afford, things completely foreign to that sullen little girl barely able to refrain from glaring all the time. She remembers one winter break spent primarily throwing knives at a tree on the far edge of the property. She remembers purposely bumping into people on sidewalks and going out of her way to be silent and still for long enough periods of time to unsettle, startle, and occasionally scare those happening upon her. Years without eye contact or interaction—that was anger, childish and impotent. What she feels now is as far removed from anger as heat from ice.

Falcone made a good first impression. She read about it the next day in the paper Alfred handed her. What isn't in the front-page article is the fact that the crime boss' front teeth had been punched down his throat and the fingers of his right hand, the one he liked to use when pointing a gun or making threats, were reduced to useless flaps of meat. What isn't stated is that this powerful man begged, _begged_—_like a fucking dog_ when the Bat had him on his back, genitals squishing underfoot. That wasn't anger that did that. It was something colder, older, something very much like revenge on the surface but much more resonant, more ruthless, more practical and long-term.

That was a message.

The double-interaction is the trickiest part in any communication, after all. In truth, her response was quite tame. She did nothing she can't live with, nothing wrong or wicked. She asked, and Falcone answered, and then she answered back—and answered everything.

The Batman. As Brooke Wayne, she smiles at every mention of that name, often joking about how built the guy must be or how much in need of a good lay he clearly is—_all that pent up frustration, you know_. The trick soon becomes extracting herself from these displays so that she can continue building the legend. Here again, the recipe is adapted to fit each situation.

Sometimes, it's a "business emergency," which everyone laughs at, or it's a prior engagement, which just means Brooke Wayne is bored to tears and desperate for a change in venue. She always does her research beforehand, and thus having the right "dates" tagging along can work as both excuse and alibi. Usually, it's at least one woman and either another interested woman or an easily dominated man. Once, she had a gay man on each arm, and, while that was wonderfully effective later in the evening when she went to slip away, the tabloids and rumor mill weren't fooled. Not a real loss, though, as now she's apparently developed quite the reputation as a perverted voyeur, which works too. Women, though, are best—lesbians or bisexuals, those secure and definite in their sexuality. The point is interest and attention. She needs it on her and then off her, and there's no time for cold feet or talking some inexperienced young thing into the bed, only to have her perch awkwardly at the edge and never get involved enough to become truly distracted to the fact that, _oh, where did Brooke go? Oh, well, come here and let's fuck in her bed without her._

Women also stop, take 'no' for an answer. Gentlemen do this too, but not all men, and especially not in Gotham, are gentlemen. She doesn't have time to waste, should something—happen in the bedroom.

Alfred doesn't like this, any of this. He never says it outright, but it's patently obvious. At breakfast one morning, when she manages to sneak back up into the kitchen right as the ladies in question are just beginning to stir above, she gets a long stare from him, and it takes an insistent and more than slightly irritated gesture from Alfred for her to realize there's still some black around her eyes and across the bridge of her nose.

"Thanks," she says, taking the towel he's holding out and scrubbing harshly at her face. "Probably couldn't've passed that off as makeup," she adds ruefully.

"Certainly not to those who wear it with any frequency," Alfred responds on a sigh, his eyes pointedly shooting up to the ceiling.

Not gone yet, then. Well, this is always awkward. The morning after isn't her least favorite part of the whole act, but it's certainly down there on the list, only ranking above society parties, where she's tasked with maintaining a polite but insipid smile while married businessmen shamelessly flirt with her in front of their wives—and too often feel justified in attempting to grope her when those wives aren't looking. Following dinner, she's then herded off into a drawing room with these slighted train wrecks, the only things they have in common being what's between their legs and their disgust for the men down the hall.

_Nearing 30 and never married, oh, that Brooke Wayne is such a sad case, isn't she? Pretty girl but damaged goods, you know. _

That's then followed by the much more amusing, _not too damaged, if you know what I mean, because I heard she and so-and-so did this_, or the increasingly popular, _no surprise there because everyone and their dog knows she's not exactly the marrying type, at least not in _this_ state. . ._

She crosses over to the island and hitches herself up onto one of the stools. Another look from Alfred gets her a nod, and she sets down the towel and brings her hands up to her temples.

"Long night, Madame?"

She sighs, rubbing at the headache that's dogged her since that altercation with the pimp in Oldtown early in the night. "Not long enough," she eventually answers, dropping her hands unceremoniously when a plate is slid in front of her. "Is this for me?" she asks inanely, as a fork and napkin join the plate of French toast.

"No, Ms. Wayne," and she's already rolling her eyes at his tone of voice, "I simply trust you to look after it for me." He's facing away again, hopefully fixing his own plate to sit and eat with her, but, even though he's unable to see it, she purses her lips in an effort at hiding her smile.

"You even gave me some weapons," she jokes, picking up the fork and twirling it. It's heavy, silver, but it's not elaborately decorated like some of the other family stuff. She's balancing it on her index finger when Alfred turns around with, good, his own plate. She meets his eyes, and he frowns, but it's not serious.

"No mayhem at breakfast," he declares deadpan, walking around the island to take the seat to her right.

She follows him with her eyes, and when he's sat down and has settled his napkin precisely in his lap, Brooke breathes out deeply and turns to do the same.

Half a minute later, after she's spread butter and poured syrup and is lifting up a piece of French toast, Alfred deliberately nudges her arm with his elbow, causing her to miss her mouth entirely and smear sticky syrup across her left cheek. When she turns to look at him, he's chewing with his eyes pinned straight ahead, the very picture of dignified.

She doesn't wipe the syrup off, instead popping the bite into her mouth and this time smiling wide enough he's bound to see even from the corner of his eye.

And that morning is one of the whys, the reasons, and not the cause.

* * *

Starting out, there are few enough problems that when she does hit some snags she's too slow to react, lulled as she is into complacency. It's too close a call, and she doesn't know if they'd guessed, the thugs or that scheming shrink, the truth about her, the fact she is a woman playing a man's game, playing dress up in her stolen body armor and war paint and armed with stupid gadgets. Maybe the goons hadn't figured it out, but she has this pit in her stomach, this well of dread inside her saying the doctor knew.

She opens her eyes and is met with the sun. The blackout curtains are pulled back, and light streams in, showing the situation for what it is: a sad, lonely old man stuck caring for a traumatized woman with a guilt complex. Alfred is sitting on the edge of the bed and slowly holds out a glass of water with Alka-Seltzer. Brooke takes it with both hands, keeping her focus only on the glass, and maybe that's why discovering there's someone else besides the two of them in the bedroom is such a shock.

"Ms. Wayne," Lucius says, and she flinches, her eyes snapping shut as she then takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm down. "I don't mean to alarm you," he adds carefully, tone both wry and concerned, "but you really must be more careful on your nighttime excursions."

Brooke takes a sip of the carbonated water and instantly feels a bit more with it. She glances over at the wall Lucius is currently leaning against and tries a small, grateful smile on for size. Alfred noticeably shifts on the bed.

"What can I say?" Brooke jokes. "Always try something before deciding you don't like it, right? Guess I can cross weaponized hallucinogens off my list. . . "

Lucius comes closer, stopping at the foot of the bed with his hands casually in his pockets like it's everyday he's apparently called in to rescue poisoned billionaires. "I ran a series of tests on a hastily taken blood sample and then counteracted the catalyst by. . . " At her no doubt glazed-over expression, he stops, chuckling. "Suffice to say, Ms. Wayne, I developed and administered an antidote less than two hours ago. Might I suggest that in the future when attending such—exhilarating gatherings as the other night's, you forego any party favors?"

Brooke nods, her mouth quirking to the side. "All the same," she says, "would you mind synthesizing more? Never know when it might come in handy. . . "

Lucius' eyebrows shoot up, but he nods and with that departs, he and Alfred exchanging polite goodbyes on his way out the door. That of course leaves just the two of them, and she takes another drink of water before meeting that stare.

Disappointment, sure, but it's worry narrowing Alfred's eyes and uncertainty compressing his mouth. It's the first time he really doubts her, not what she's doing, the path she's chosen in order to reclaim Gotham, but _her_, Brooke, his charge, his ward. She reads it right there on his face: he doesn't think she can do this, can keep doing it.

It's perhaps a testament to the kind of people they are that they don't say anything further. Alfred soon leaves, taking with him the empty glass. Brooke carefully climbs out of the bed after a few minutes spent staring at the ceiling and heads to the bathroom.

Happy birthday, Rachel says to her an hour later, and Brooke smiles and opens the gift and keeps from saying that it doesn't matter if it's her birthday, that it's all meaningless anyway, that she's not the person Rachel thinks she is, that she _is_ trying here, here, underneath, down deep—the only part that's real, the only part still her. And when Rachel's called away to the Narrows, Brooke follows her because she is doing this, can and will, no matter what anybody says—or doesn't say.

* * *

Gordon got old, but he didn't change. She's pleased her initial assessment of his character still holds up almost 20 years later. Tracking him during the day still feels almost wrong somehow, though, like they're not who they are to each other when the sun's shining. She's Brooke, but he's still Gordon. He's always Gordon, but maybe it's the fact that he's not hers during working hours that makes it unsettling. At the police precinct, he's the cop the rest try to steer clear of, the one honest guy in a sea of liars, all of them crashing against each other, overlapping waves of corruption—hypocrites, the lot of them. They said the words, and that's all they were: words to recite, meaningless, sentimental nonsense. To Gordon, to Jim Gordon, that was a promise he made the day he received his badge. He wants to make a difference. She can see it. He did, though; he did make a difference. One night, almost 20 years ago, he helped make her.

During the day, he's not one of them, but at night, he all hers, her partner, her associate, her backup.

She can't fool him up close, though, doubts she could trick anyone crouching inches away from her, not with the suit or the vocal tricks or the body language she's been working on. The moment he gets it, his eyes go wide, and he rears back a little on the balls of his feet. It would almost be funny, if Rachel weren't currently terrified out of her mind on Crane's goddamned fear toxin.

Yes, the Batman is in fact a Batwoman. Welcome to the 21st Century, Detective Gordon.

"You take her outside," she tells him. "I'll meet you in the alley." She doesn't lighten up on the Voice, even though at this point it's more than slightly ridiculous. Wouldn't do to let up. Might give him ideas. Safer too, this way. If he and Brooke Wayne were ever to cross paths, the last thing she wants is him staring at her like he is right now—equal parts impressed and pitying.

"What are you going to do?" he asks, hesitantly, already gathering up a twitching and shaking Rachel into his arms.

"Provide the diversion," she responds, her lips quirking up into a smirk. She's listening for them, and as soon as yells and screams start sounding from outside, she stands up and motions Gordon to start making his way carefully down the staircase. Then, extending her arm just past the banister and balancing the emitter in the palm of her glove, she waits only six seconds for the bats to swarm inside. Gordon's made it roughly halfway when she drops the sonic device down the stairwell, following it two seconds later after backing up and hurdling the railing like she's trying for first place in Track. She snaps open the cape and shocks the frame into making her wings, and then she is the perfect distraction. The cops inside are freaking out, their guns up but pointed at the little, harmless bats, not the one they should really be watching. She catches a few watching her land, and it probably shouldn't be as rewarding as it is, seeing these stoic tough guys almost shitting themselves, those guns they'd raised minutes ago with the intention of shooting her on sight now clutched tight in their sweaty fingers. It is rewarding, though. It is very rewarding.

"Ask first; shoot second next time," she growls at the one unlucky enough to be crouched at the base of the stairs. She hopes that was a whimper she heard as she passed him and not just another bat squeak.

Gordon's already outside by the time she's striding down the hallway and heading out the back exit. She clicks open the Tumbler's hatch as she passes by it on her way to Gordon. He's still got a secure hold on Rachel, and she tries not to hold it against him when he hesitates in handing her over. Hopefully just his protective instincts. He's got kids, after all.

She takes Rachel in her arms and runs back to the Tumbler, Gordon calling out that he'll go get his car and come back.

"I brought mine!" she shouts back, already positioning Rachel inside and strapping her in. She then jumps onto the front and slides across to the driver's side, getting in and closing the hatch in one move. Gordon backpedals into the wall as she gases it and roars down the alley. Rachel's hands are clenching and unclenching, and her breathing's still way too close to hyperventilating, but any words of comfort coming from a giant bat is unlikely to be reassuring in her current mindset.

She remembers that fear, rushing through like a tidal wave or forest fire, destroying every rational thought in its path.

"It's okay," Brooke says, softly, trying not to make eye contact with Rachel. Keep them separate. Giant bat is driving. Brooke, though, is telling Rachel, "It's okay. It will be okay, Rach. _Breathe_. . . "

She's good at multitasking, which proves invaluable when fleeing police in a high-speed chase while attempting to calm down the person sitting shotgun who's recently been exposed to a powerful, panic-inducing hallucinogen.

Just as the entrance to the cave appears ahead, Rachel stiffens in her seat, and her eyes visibly roll back into her head. Brooke's hand shoots out before she can think better of it, and so it's Batman's gloved gauntlet grabbing Rachel's hand and Brooke's desperate voice yelling, "Rachel! Rachel, _hold on_!" as the Tumbler shoots into the air, through the waterfall, and she instantly jerks the wheel to the side and hits the brake.

She doesn't breathe for the next minute, doesn't even think. It's her body acting on autopilot, opening the hatch and thanking some imagined deity above that Lucius' antidote is there waiting on the desk nearby, as she runs and glides to it and runs and glides back, sliding to her knees in the water and slipping the needle into the pale crease of Rachel's elbow. She wasn't too late. Rachel will be okay. She wasn't–

She wasn't. Rachel remains unconscious, but her breathing slows down to the proper speed.

Brooke takes off the mask, her other hand, Batman's glove, still holding Rachel's arm. Wasn't just one of them terrified on that ride.

Fear brings it all back, even more potent than scent memory—gasping, kneeling in wetness, desperate because they're already gone, and it's all her fault–

She stands up, tosses the cowl into the driver's seat and rips off her gloves, dropping them on the floor of the cave, right in the water. She then bends over and carefully picks up Rachel again, holds her and carries her away.

She hopes her two lives won't cross anymore. She can't be both. It's too hard to hold onto. She can't take it—or doesn't want to. Brooke Wayne couldn't do what the Batman does.

And she doesn't want Batman touching what isn't wrong. Those hands can't be gentle.


	3. Three

'Batman' and certain characters belong to DC Comics and Warner Bros., respectively.

There is no non-con/dub-con/rape depicted in this story, but there are references to it having occurred in the past. I included the warnings just to be safe, as I certainly do not want to trigger anyone.

* * *

From off the rack, she drags down the bag containing the black dress, unzipping it as she walks over to the wide table in the middle of the closet. There, she digs out a pair of black shoes, flats because she has the feeling the night's just starting and is fast running out of patience. She checks her arms and back in the mirror one final time to make sure no bruising has cropped up in the past hour and a half, and then she pulls on the dress, slips on the shoes, hooks in a matching set of earrings, and steps out to go and find Alfred.

It's easy to pull him away from what is already shaping up to be quite the crowd downstairs, all with glasses of champagne in hand and dressed to the nines, all chuckling and grinning sharply and toasting Brooke Wayne's health while no doubt wondering at her absence from her own birthday party. She leads Alfred down the hall and tells him Rachel is 'downstairs and needs a ride home,' and that's apparently where he draws the line, lightly grabbing her arm to keep her close and finally confronting her.

He gestures at the TV that's going in the corner.

"How exactly, might I ask, is a high-speed chase resulting in tens of thousands of dollars worth of damage 'for the sake of Gotham'? You swore this wasn't an abuse of power, wasn't some new way to vent your frustrations, but I'm sorry; that is all I see here. Vigilantism, violence and destruction—how are these building that golden future of yours, Madame?" He waits a moment, clearly hesitating before going in for the kill, and Brooke takes the opportunity to glance at the TV just in time to catch the Tumbler's jump onto the roof from the top of the parking garage. No, it isn't pretty.

Turning back to meet Alfred's eyes, she gets as far as, "It's Rachel, Alfred. What was I suppos– ?" before he cuts her off.

"You've lied to me before, Ms. Wayne, but never to this extent."

She's staring. Her mouth is open, and she's staring at him like a landed fish, his hand still holding her arm just above the elbow, and it crosses her mind. It does. Five seconds, and she could turn those words back on him, could strike just as true and deep, could wound him. Half that time, and she'd have him on the floor in any number of ways, no matter all that extensive training and experience he likes to keep hidden under the guise of kindly English gentleman. The physical is almost always faster than the cerebral.

"I'm not lying," she finally responds in an even tone, pulling her arm from his grasp. "And regardless of what you may think of me, Rachel needs to be taken home. Now, I can certainly do it myself, but I was rather under the impression that my presence is needed downstairs. Certainly wouldn't want to keep those 'friends' of mine waiting any longer, would we?"

She then takes a step back, sliding her hands up to smooth down the updo of her hair before moving around Alfred and striding out of the room and down the hall. Behind her, the keys are picked out on the piano and there's a whooshing sound, and Brooke sighs as she rounds the corner. She didn't tell Alfred her belief that the party needs to be called off and that the shortest route in this set of circumstances is likely public humiliation. She knows what his reaction would be, and it's better this way.

Violence is quicker, but mind games last longer, and she doesn't dare to hope they'll make it through the night without some sort of retaliation on behalf of whoever's actually running this show—because it's clear now that person is not Jonathan Crane.

* * *

Lucius takes her keycard with a frown but promptly turns and leaves for Wayne tower. She has every confidence he'll come through in time, but just as she's taking a deep breath in preparation for making the rounds and doling out the reasons for calling a halt to the proceedings, a dignified but unfamiliar woman puts a hand on Brooke's shoulder and persists in dragging her to the middle of the floor towards someone she apparently simply must meet.

" . . . Mr. Ra's al Ghul?" the woman then says uncertainly. "Am I pronouncing that correctly?"

Time slows down as she's turning her head, but it speeds right back up once she sees it's not really Ra's. She has never seen the man in front of her, although something in his bearing does bring to mind the League's training.

"You're not Ra's," Brooke says, as the woman who'd been so insistent on making introductions now cautiously, even somewhat obsequiously steps back, fading into the crowd. "Ra's," she continues in a whisper, staring down this imposter, "is dead."

"But," a deep and masculine voice then speaks into her ear, and this time it's her heart that skips, not time, "are the ways of Shadows not nebulous, not—mysterious and fleeting, not—wholly supernatural?"

She doesn't turn to face him, instead waiting motionless as he slowly walks around to stand in front of her. In his fine, tailored tuxedo with his refined accent and polite, stoic manner, he presents the very picture of gentility and sophistication. He appears to be a gentleman on the surface, but Brooke looks up and meets his eyes, and she sees the great panther pacing there within.

"Ra's," she greets, and he inclines his head in a way she might consider condescending from anyone else.

"Ms. Wayne," he returns, taking a gentle hold of her upper arm and leading her towards the outskirts of the room, while sounding exactly as he did in that Bhutanese prison, all paternal concern and inexhaustible patience with just a touch of disappointment. "We find ourselves at a crossroads," he says, as they stop under an arch just beyond the ballroom. "For it is impossible to move forward, don't you find, when ghosts from the past come calling?"

"I couldn't agree more," she answers, and just as she'd known he would—he smiles, inclining his head subtly, which at first she takes as him acknowledging her ironic retort. When several men around the room move as one, however, spreading out and taking up strategically advantageous positions around the floor, she realizes this is bigger than she'd thought.

"It's you," she accuses, pulling her arm from his grasp and taking a single, important step back.

He simply raises his eyebrows and smiles in amusement, and this time it is patronizing—belittling.

"Indeed," he agrees, casting another glance around the room. "Although why you seem so shocked, I admit, escapes me. Did we not make it clear we had plans for the city of Gotham?" He holds her eyes as he deliberately crowds her, pointedly negating any attempt she's making at securing a physical advantage. He's using his greater height and body mass, effectively cutting her off from the rest of the room—not that anyone in there would be worth a damn if it came down to it. It's more the psychological impact of the move that Henr– that Ra's is hoping for.

And it's working, damn it. She can feel sweat forming on her face and her hands curling into fists.

"I thought," she admits between clenched teeth, as two Shadows come to stand on either side of her at a distance of, generously, five feet away, "those plans might have been abandoned in light of—extenuating circumstances."

Ra's chuckles and shifts his weight back a hair, looking down to study her. And while he's appraising her, she likewise takes the moment to assess him. He appears to be perfectly healthy, no signs of sustained, long-term damage from concussion or healing bones or internal injuries to speak of, more's the pity. He's as fit as ever, looks to be well rested and fed, and likely hasn't already staged the tense rescue of a close friend tonight, all of which means he's definitely one-up on her.

"Brooke," he says, and where her name coming from his mouth had once made her proud and elated, now, it signifies all that is wrong in this world. She used to feel pleased to be seen as his equal; it had been something she aspired to.

Now, he should be so lucky, this facsimile of a man, this mercenary, this killing machine lacking all compassion and sentiment. Henri Ducard is Ra's al Ghul, and he is indeed a symbol of something great and terrible, but it's not of the supernatural aspects of pure, undiluted justice or the superhuman abilities of those claiming to enforce it. Rather, he is man's hubris and brutality, completely unforgiving. He is unearthly in his callous disregard for the human heart, subhuman, not superhuman. Standing as he is in her family home and attempting to force her to his exalted will, he is in this moment the very personification of corruption. Whatever decency he'd had in him before that she'd gravitated towards—it's long gone now.

"You burn down my home," he says, the tiniest thread of anger lurking under the words, almost a growl running parallel, "and leave me for dead, and when I confront you—you dare play the injured party?" His expression turns cold, and his body, perhaps subconsciously, shifts into a fighting stance. "We opened our doors to you, and you refused us, betrayed us, and now you expect that all is forgiven—that everything has somehow been forgotten?"

Ra's reaches out, and Brooke moves quickly, immediately, but it's not fast enough. The two men on either side of her grab her, seeking to hold her still, and what keeps her that way and makes her toe the line is the meaningful glance Ra's throws over his shoulder when she attempts to buck the control.

"You'll understand," Ra's then says quietly, his eyes burning with hatred, "if I'm not so quick to let bygones be bygones. In fact, I'm somewhat inclined to return the favor. . . " And, again, he looks out over the grand ballroom floor of Wayne Manor, filled to the brim with people both close but mostly distant to her personally, all gathered to be seen wishing her the best on this, her birthday. "How many of our number do you suppose perished that day?" Ra's asks conversationally, as they both now look at her guests. "Fifty? One hundred? And how many," he says, leaning over to hiss in her ear, "of your sycophants would you think I'd have to kill to make up even a quarter of that number?"

"These are innocent people," she says, and Ra's and both of his men snort and laugh at her, at the very idea of Gothamites and these Gothamites in particular as being anything resembling 'innocent,' but she continues regardless. "They have no place in this– this feud, and what you're talking of is murder, not justice."

"It's revenge," Ra's snaps back, turning his head to meet her eyes, as the man on Brooke's right squeezes her arm harder, showing the physical outrage his master doesn't.

"Revenge," Brooke then says, recalling Rachel's words from years ago, more powerful now than she'll ever know, "is not the same as justice. It's only about making yourself feel better."

Ra's sneers, but he doesn't question her, and that is both telling and sad. She'd almost be willing to chalk all of this up to a temporary leave of sense, a fit of rage at her seeming betrayal of the League's principles and Henri's trust. But, to see that Henri recognizes the logic of her argument, acknowledges her point as legitimate—that means he's in his right mind and none of this is over. It means it's hopeless; Henri's hopeless.

He has always been this man as long as she's known him, and he will go on being this man. He is perfectly sane and exceedingly capable, and there's no turning back. It's over. This must stop.

"Let them go," she says, pitching her voice carefully and phrasing it just so. "Your quarrel is with me. . . "

A moment of silence then follows, stretching out interminably until Brooke fears some hapless guest will stumble upon their tableau here and ruin whatever chance she has of gaining them all a stay of execution.

"Ok," he finally whispers, looking out at the guests with a wicked, nasty smirk on his face. "Explain to them why they must leave immediately, and if they go—why, no harm here will befall them." Then, with a nod of his head, he signals the Shadows holding her to let go.

Their hands release her, and she moves forward, adjusting her dress and hair and modifying her walk back onto the floor until she's all but staggering—the drunken, belligerent heiress: Brooke Wayne in all her sullied glory.

* * *

At least Alfred is safe, safe back in the Palisades, safe down the road at the gate, safe watching from the driver's seat of the Rolls as the Manor burns to the ground because all Gotham City emergency personnel are a little too busy right now—what, with the mass panic brought on as the culmination of the League's brilliant master plan to finally lay waste to the city. Yeah, Alfred's safe.

Brooke herself feels invincible, immune to the fear toxin as she is courtesy of Lucius' antidote and full to bursting with wrath and righteous fury. What's before the Bat is Evil being committed by Evil men, and she brings low all Shadows placed in her path, all Arkham patients stumbling into it.

Then, as she's making her way to the heart of this menace, straight to Ra's and his thievery of her own company's technology, like a cancerous tumor appearing at the center of all she's trying to do for this city, she sees down below at a dead-end—that hopeful, excited little boy from the other night being guarded by none other than Rachel.

And Batman scoops the two of them to safety, temporary as it might be, pulling them up onto the roof and giving them at least some semblance of a better chance at wading through this disaster. Time waits for no man, however, and she's all set to jump back out into the fray when Rachel calls out.

" . . . at least tell me your name," she says, so concerned, and Brooke can see the moment Rachel recognizes her as a woman, the flicker of shock and slight increase in worry and fear.

She almost gives it away, too, almost gives in, the words floating on her tongue. But, it would be dangerous to Rachel and purely selfish.

And it would be too much like asking for approval, validation, forgiveness for something not within Rachel's power to forgive. Thus the moment passes, the chance evaporates.

Batman looks Rachel Dawes in the eyes and then returns to the fight. She moves forward and doesn't look back.

* * *

She devises a counterattack, Gordon racing ahead to derail the train with the stolen Wayne Enterprises microwave emitter, while the Bat scales the train itself, coming face-to-face with the cause of all this pain and suffering.

"Still missing the point, I see!" Ra's shouts above the noise of the rushing train. "You're fighting on the wrong side!" He then attempts to bring her down but fails because he mistakes her goal as being neutralizing him instead of what it is, namely ensuring the quick and permanent destruction of everything in this train car. She cranks the speed as high as it goes and then decimates the controls with several quick stabs of Ra's own purloined knife to the console. Now it's up to Gordon. If he's failed, then they're likely all doomed.

Still, there's Plan B, and she makes her best attempt at carrying it out too. Ra's isn't distracted enough to allow her the edge, though, despite his insistence at carrying on a conversation. It's his trademark, after all; he likes his mind games.

He throws her guilt back in her face, mocks her anger and methods. She doesn't go down, but neither does he. They are currently at an impasse when she glances up and sees a sad and beautiful sight ahead—the track broken, the suspended rails fallen to the street below.

Last stop. End of the line.

She turns back to look at Ra's and sees by the expression on his face that he had followed her eyes. But, then he turns back to her, and this is it.

"You've finally gained the courage to do what is necessary," he says, his voice ringing out clearly despite the noise.

"I've always done what's necessary," she counters. Then, pulling out an explosive and throwing it back to blow out the rear of the car, Brooke shouts to him a farewell. "Let bygones be bygones!"

Then she opens the cape and shoots the electricity through the frame, and the same force that pulls her out and up is what drives Ra's and the emitter down into the ground.

* * *

Alfred has already been on the phone, setting up accommodations for Brooke and then coordinating with Lucius. She manages to clean up somewhat in the cave with rubbing alcohol and Kleenex, and Alfred hands her clothes to change into. Lucius is on his way out with a truck. They'll clear out everything they can and take it out to the docks. People from the city won't be in until tomorrow at the earliest.

The shirt Alfred gives her is sleeveless, but he hands her a sweatshirt to go over it. Good thing, too, because her arms have several fingerprint bruises, and there's a large scrape across her collarbone.

They're standing together in the cave, she halfheartedly organizing in preparation for the move and Alfred blatantly evaluating her.

Finally, Brooke says, "Thank you, Alfred, for earlier."

She can hear his sigh but doesn't turn around, instead adding quietly and as detached as she can, "I know this is hard on you, what I do, what– what I'm trying to do. And I appreciate the position I've put you in," she says, remembering earlier on the rooftop, when everything in her was begging to tell Rachel the truth just so she wouldn't be alone, just so someone else would understand.

Rachel, of all of them, would understand the best. Brooke knows she would, and maybe that's exactly why she can't tell her. It would ruin it, negate everything she's done so far. If she does it for someone, or if it's someone else's idea—then it wouldn't really be her, would it? She's already pushing it with Alfred and Lucius, with Jim Gordon. How many more people will she drag into this freak show?

Just because she's lonely. Just because she's weak, because she's—afraid.

"What would they think, I wonder," she whispers before she can help it.

"I imagine," Alfred responds, and his voice sounds much closer than before, which is understandable when she looks behind and sees he's just a few feet away now, "that there would be a great deal of worrying and a stern lecture on unnecessary personal risk."

Brooke nods, smiling slightly even as she swallows back the ache and longing.

"But then, Madame," he adds, coming up slowly beside her and just standing there, comforting and familiar and so solid, "I'd wager a hug wouldn't be out of order, either."

"And a good shake to try and get some sense into me," she responds, remembering.

Alfred puts his hand on her shoulder then, and she blinks and breathes deeply.

* * *

If Gordon's surprised when she shows up, he doesn't show it.

"Reconstruction has to be a top priority," she points out in Batman's voice. Gordon's mustache twitches, but she mentally rolls her eyes and writes it off as his recent promotion and the high of actually doing something productive for the city for once.

"I notice Wayne Enterprises at the front of the pack in that regard," Gordon remarks—perhaps too casually.

She looks at him closely, but he could have meant any number of things with that comment. It's too vague to tell if he—knows, or thinks he knows, or is just mentioning it, or perhaps is criticizing the company's involvement.

"The more, the merrier," she growls back, attempting to sound dismissive and sarcastic. "What's this I hear about a string of bank robberies?"

The mustache twitches at the blatant change in conversation, but he follows her lead.

Nodding, Gordon says, "Three hit so far—always men, always masked. According to witness accounts, one man walks away with the haul, while the others are killed right there at the scene."

She angles her body slightly away, turning to make ready for a quick exit. "The clown," she agrees.

Gordon reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an evidence bag containing a single playing card. "Leaves a calling card each time," he says, and something in his voice, something about the tone, makes her hesitate, causes her to turn back.

"You're worried," she says eventually, surprised despite herself.

He nods unashamedly, turning to look out at the city, jerking his head towards the wrecked portion of the train rails down the block. "Where do we go from here?" he asks, rhetorically.

She calls him on it, though, unwilling to let him fall into that trap again of self-doubt and futility.

"We do what we must," she says. "We do our best, go beyond what's expected."

"Fight fire with fire?" he asks, glancing at her, and she thinks carefully of what to say next. He's wanting to help. He just needs a reason to, the right reason.

"Best way to put out a fire," she says, "is to smother it. We have to be efficient, practical."

"And pray the escalation stops here?" he asks, humorlessly. "I didn't take you for an optimist."

She turns her head and meets his eyes. "We're all optimists, living here, getting up every morning, going to work like it makes a difference. If we weren't, Gordon, we'd be dead."

He stares at her then blinks, and she nods in return, backing up slowly and then moving quickly to the far edge of the rooftop so she can head back to the Narrows from here.

Just when she gets up onto the ledge, he calls out, "I didn't get a chance to thank you!"

Without turning back, without looking back, she answers, "I don't need your gratitude, just your help."

Then the Bat jumps from the roof.


End file.
